


Fallen Soldier

by Murder_Kitten



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Boxing & Fisticuffs, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Eventual Happy Ending, Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning, Howling Commandos Mentions, Memorials, Memories, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Super Soldier Serum, angsty steve, mild tony bashing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:40:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23074132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Murder_Kitten/pseuds/Murder_Kitten
Summary: After Steve wakes up from nearly seventy years sleeping in the ice, he struggles to readjust to the world he finds himself in. With everything and everyone he knew and loved gone, can he find closure in a tribute to his fallen friend - Sergeant James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes?Multichap. Complete.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, Phil Coulson & Steve Rogers
Comments: 14
Kudos: 12





	1. All Nightmare Long

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: the characters do not belong to me but are the property of Stan Lee and the MCU. No copyright infringement is intended. I make no profit from these works. All stories are for fun and entertainment only. 
> 
> I always welcome reviews/comments of people who enjoy my works.
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read. I hope you enjoy it.

__

_"_ _BUCKY! NO!-"_

_"_ _AAAAHHHHHHHHHH…"_

The screams of his best friend falling to his death echoed through his brain as Steve Rogers sat bolt upright, covered in cold sweat and gasping for air in the still apartment. Just three weeks out of the ice and it still felt like yesterday to him: Bucky, the Red Skull, Hydra. For the rest of the world it had been seventy years. _Seventy years._ Everyone he had known or loved – gone. And not just gone – forgotten. The world now was unrecognisable and nobody cared about a super soldier returned from a war long over. He was nothing more than memory and novelty.

He rolled out of bed, running a hand through his sweat dampened hair. He got up and fetched himself a glass of water from the jug in the refrigerator. His new apartment was nice, plainly furnished, courtesy of Nick Fury and S.H.I.E.L.D but adequate for his needs. It was certainly much nicer than the tiny apartment he and Bucky had rented together way back when. _Good one, Rogers. Almost a full thirty seconds without thinking about him,_ Steve thought bitterly, shutting the refrigerator door with more force than necessary.

He balled his hands into fists and swallowed down the frustration and despair that consumed his every waking moment. The team of clinical psychologists and S.H.I.E.L.D agents who had debriefed him had said he just needed time to adjust. They deemed him disoriented and confused, as anyone would be, waking up seventy years in the future. And they were right, he was lost and displaced, running to catch up. What they had failed to realise, chalking it up to PTSD and grief, was that Steve was angry. So very angry.

The serum that was supposed to be his chance to serve his country had perhaps saved his life, by costing him everything and everyone that had ever meant something to him. Dr Abraham Erskine – the German scientist who had been the first to see Steve as someone worthwhile with something to offer the world – _dead,_ killed by a Hydra assassin. Bucky Barnes, his best friend, his brother, his everything – _dead_ , fallen to his death from a German train, his remains unrecoverable. Peggy Carter, the girl Steve had been head over heels for, sitting in a nursing home with Alzheimer's. His Howling Commando's – long dead and forgotten. It was a short list really –the people that were important to him. But Steve couldn't help but feel that he'd failed them. Couldn't help wishing that his nose dive into the Arctic had been a little more permanent. He knew he was being ungrateful of course, bitter.

But he felt that Steve Rogers was truly dead, a casualty of the war. All that remained was Captain America – a walking recruitment poster and symbol of a world that had ceased to exist a long time ago. Steve sighed, there was no going back to bed now.


	2. Fight Night

Giving up on sleep entirely, Steve dragged his new gym bag out of the closet, throwing in a water bottle, towel and his hand wraps. He was going to the gym, he decided. He sorely needed a distraction and short of finding some back alley fist fight to work off his aggression, this was the only thing that could possibly tire him out enough so that he could sleep and put himself and the memories to bed. He had tried TV as a distraction before and it just didn’t work for him. It was too different, the women’s clothes on these shows too scant and immodest, their boldness and sexual promiscuity made him blush guiltily, like the good boy he was. His Ma would be scandalised if she could see it.

He shut the door on the apartment and the bittersweet memories of Sarah Rogers, making his way downstairs. Nobody was up and around so early in the morning, which he was grateful for. He hated people staring at him, neighbours, government agents, they were all the same to him, he just wanted to be left alone. The gym was more of an abandoned recreation hall in the basement of the building, but that suited Steve just fine. His neighbour, _Phil_ he’d said his name was, had helped Steve lug half a dozen boxing bags down here. Proper ones too – filled with sand, not these new age ones. Steve didn’t know what they were packed with, but they were far too lightweight and flimsy. He needed something that could take the force of a super soldier. A pissed off super soldier, that is.

He wrapped his hands before he started and then slammed into the bag. That first punch felt so good. _Jab. Jab. Uppercut. Jab. Jab. Right hook. Jab. Jab. Kick. Jab. Jab._ The memories flooding back with every punch…

_“Take it easy there, Punk," Bucky said teasingly as the ninety-five pounds of aggression aka Steven Grant Rogers, flung himself at the bag Bucky held, his little fists flailing ineffectively as the boy almost screamed with rage. Bucky laughed softly, Steve’s fighting technique reminded one less of a bear and more of a tiny dog. Bucky’s laughter infuriated Steve, who pummelled the bag with renewed aggression, glaring at his best friend._

_“Not funny, Buck!” he said, accentuating each word with an angry punch into the bag._

_“You’re right, it’s not,” Bucky agreed, sobering up as he remembered saving Steve from a back alley ass kicking only that afternoon. One of these days, he wasn’t going to get there in time and Steve would have worse injuries than a split lip and a bloody nose. Bucky’s Ma would kill him, she already saw Steve as her own, more-so since Sarah Rogers had passed away. She was always after Bucky about it._

_“Watch out for Steve, James. Don’t let him go looking for trouble.”_

_As if anyone could stop Steve, he was just a magnet for attracting unwanted attention which was why they were here. If Steve could learn to throw a proper punch, Bucky wouldn’t be so worried about being ordered to ship out, he had already been drafted into the army thanks to the government conscription. Ideally, Steve could just not go looking for fights, but he knew that would never happen._

_“Okay, stop, stop," Bucky said as Steve panted, his arms already shaking from exertion and his breath coming out in wheezes and gasps._

_“What? I could do this all day!” Steve declared as Bucky hid a grin._

_“No, just, do it like this Steve,” he said, demonstrating. “Plant your feet and then rotate your hips as you punch, see?” Steve nodded along, trying to copy Bucky. “The hips, Steve. That’s where the power comes from. Lemme see you try.”_

_Steve tried and tried, until the exertion brought on an asthma attack. Bucky helped him home after, shaking his head._

_“Don’t do anything stupid til I get back," he warned, leaving to pick up his little sister from her piano lesson._

_“How can I? You’re taking all the stupid with you,” Steve panted, the exchange a running joke between them, as Bucky laughed and saluted, walking away._

WHAM! Steve hit the bag with such force that it split, sand trickling out in a little stream onto the floor. He clenched the bag, panting hard, his heart racing and his throat choked with a painful lump that he tried his darndest to swallow. His squeezed his eyes shut, willing the memories and emotions raging inside to quieten in the wake of the accusation that rang clearly in his head like the toll of a bell. He’d failed Bucky. He’d failed him and it was too late. He remembered that cocky grin, his laughing face. But Bucky was gone. All he had now were the bittersweet memories.


	3. Java Blues

Steve made his way back upstairs later, it was still very early in the morning so he was surprised to see his neighbour already up, his apartment door open. Steve didn’t mean to pry, he would never intentionally be so rude, but the door was open and well, idle curiosity. He had completely blanked on his neighbour’s name, but he realised he must be new to the building too because all his stuff was still in boxes, the living area sparsely furnished with a large desk and chair, multiple video feeds playing on the screens opposite the desk. Before he could get a closer look, his neighbour appeared in front of him, blocking his view to the screens. He was middle aged, shorter than Steve and wearing a suit at six in the morning. Steve remembered him saying he worked for a security agency, and from the look of him, this was the kind of the man who lived in suits.

Remembering his manners, Steve flashed his neighbour an apologetic smile.

“Sorry to intrude. The door was open," he said, gesturing at it feebly.

“You’re not intruding at all," the man said genially. “Welcome any time, Captain Rogers.”

Steve visibly stiffened. Nobody called him Captain Rogers. Not in this building. Nobody was supposed to know who he was. Seeing Steve’s panic, the man raised his hand in a conciliatory gesture.

“I recognised you from the pictures in the paper," he said calmly.

Steve remained guarded. It was a habitual trait of good, honest men. They were not easily lied to. His neighbour might be telling the truth, he might not. Steve was certain he knew more than he was telling. He could even be working for Hydra. No, that was ridiculous. Hydra were long gone, they’d vanished with the Red Skull seventy years ago. But there was still something off here and Steve remained suspicious, hovering awkwardly in the doorway. Occupational hazard of the serum making him so big he supposed, it was impossible to appear inconspicuous.

“Coffee?” the man offered, ignoring Steve’s awkwardness.

“Uh, sure," Steve said, uncomfortably aware that his hair and shirt were sticky with sweat, he probably reeked, and he felt rather poorly groomed next to his neighbour in his crease free suit and starched white shirt.

“Come on then, I’m buying," the man said, leading Steve into the hall and shutting the apartment door behind him.

“Uh, isn’t it a little early?” Steve said, checking his watch. _Twenty past six_ the analogue face said. Steve had seen these new digital watches, but he much preferred the old style. It reminded him a little of the watch Bucky had received from his mother as a birthday present. And his thoughts were back at Bucky again. It seemed his brain just wouldn’t allow him the luxury of forgetting his old friend. All his memories before the ice were of Bucky. All the good ones at least. And the bad, he thought grimly, remembering Bucky falling from the train.

“There’s a McDonald’s on the corner. They’re open twenty-four hours a day," his neighbour shrugged. “Their coffee’s not half bad.”

Steve didn’t have a clue what McDonald’s was, but after all, the restaurant chain had only been around since nineteen-fifty-five, so it was a little after his time. On very little sleep, coffee sounded great and he followed his new friend downstairs and out onto the street. It was for the most part quiet, though there were some lights on and cars moving as people left early for work. Some things didn’t change. Why, Steve could remember Bucky’s Ma getting up at the crack of dawn and not returning much before midnight and still it had been a struggle to provide for her young family. Bucky had helped out where he could, but he wasn’t his father and Steve knew how much it had pained him to go off to the army and leave his family behind to struggle through lean times. He wondered if any of Bucky’s family were still alive. He’d had sisters, maybe they’d gotten married and had families of their own. But their names wouldn’t be Barnes anymore, making them that much harder to track down, he thought with a sigh. He realised his thoughts had wandered again and quickly followed his neighbour into McDonald’s.

The smell of coffee permeated the dining area of McDonald’s as Steve took a seat in a back booth against the wall. He had found he hated sitting with his back to an open room, old instincts he supposed. He had learned to always keep people in front of him where he could watch their every move. It had been seventy years since he’d had someone he trusted to watch his six. His Howling Commando’s having been the last men he’d trusted in until the end. And if the stories were to be believed, they’d proved their mettle long after Steve had been gone. Good men, all of them. He studied his neighbour as he sat down opposite Steve with a half smile. Was his neighbour a good man? Someone he could trust when his back was turned? He wasn’t sure.

He sipped at the foamy coffee he was brought and struggled not to pull a face at the milky sweetness. He had gotten used to drinking coffee black after sugar had been rationed back in the forties. Still, he wasn’t about to turn his nose up at free coffee. His neighbour was the first person he’d interacted with, at least on a social level. There had been no shortage of doctors, nurses, specialists, psychologists – all clinical and detached, treating him like the freak lab rat he had resisted becoming since the first time he was injected with the serum. This guy, trusted or not, was the first to treat Steve like a person since he’d been back. The only other person had been Nick Fury but he was another one it was hard to read, hard to trust, and Steve’s only interaction with him had been in the whirl of emotions and confusion at discovering he had lost the last seventy years.

“What’s on your mind, Captain?” his neighbour asked, watching Steve stare moodily into his coffee.

“It’s Steve. Just Steve," he corrected him. “Haven’t been a captain in a long time, sir.”

“Well, alright _Steve,"_ the man said, testing how the name sounded out loud. “But I’m no sir either. I’m just Phil.”

Steve acknowledged him with a nod and a tiny smile. At least he knew his name now. He’d thought it was something similar – Bill or Gil maybe, and was thankful not to have blundered through it.

“So, Steve. What’s on your mind?” Phil repeated, setting his coffee down and surveying his companion.

Steve heaved a sigh and shrugged his shoulders in defeat. “I wouldn’t really know where to even begin, sir. Phil," he corrected himself hastily.

“I know what you went through," Phil said quietly and Steve’s eyes narrowed, he didn’t know the half of it. He didn’t know _Bucky_ or see the weapons Hydra had utilised, vaporising men with the power of that blue cube. He wasn’t haunted by the Red Skull, didn’t hear James Buchanan Barnes falling to his death every night, didn’t hear Peggy Carter’s quiet sobs in those last few minutes when she’d fought to be brave for him, knowing Steve was going to his death, that they’d never get their dance. Phil didn’t know anything.

“I know you’re angry Steve," Phil said, seeming to have read as much in his face. “You don’t have to hide it. It’s understandable and it’s part of the healing process.”

Steve sighed, everything felt so heavy. It was all just too much. “What’s the other part?” he asked sadly.

Phil counted on his fingers as he explained. “It’s grief Steve. You lost a lot of good people, friends, family, in such a short time. It’s a process, healing from it all. Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance. Everyone goes through those stages. There’s no shortcut to healing.”

Steve frowned, he wasn’t sure when his coffee acquaintance had entered that zone where he felt comfortable having a heart to heart. He scowled, people in the forties hadn’t needed all these stages. There had only been two. Tragedy and carrying on with your life. And sleepovers at the Barnes house in between. Bucky had insisted. He shook his head, Phil didn’t get it, not really. It wasn’t just the grief, it was how behind he felt. How could he possibly catch up on seventy years worth of history and human advancements in technology, science, and medicine? There was just too much he’d missed.

“What do you suggest I do, Phil?” he asked.

“What do you want to do?” Phil replied, watching him carefully.

Steve sighed - go _back to bed and forget it all happened._

_No._ A voice inside cautioned. A voice that sounded a lot like Bucky’s. Retreating into himself wasn’t an option, he had to find a way forward somehow.

“I don’t know," Steve admitted.

“If I can make a suggestion,” Phil said quietly, and Steve leaned in to catch his words. “It’s not just the loss Steve, it’s the cultural shock. I’d start writing a list of important historical points to read about, maybe try some new things – Thai food is pretty good.”

“Which historical things?” Steve asked, swamped, there were just too many.

“Start with the Moon Landing and the Berlin Wall," Phil advised, handing Steve a small blank notebook and pen from his pocket as Steve jotted down _moon landing, Berlin Wall, Thai food._

Phil’s phone rang and he left the table to take the call, getting a faraway, distant look in his eyes that Steve recognised. The look of duty, a man following orders. Steve felt his respect for Phil increase.

“Sorry about that,” Phil apologised, returning to the table.

Steve offered him a smile. “Duty calls.”

“Unfortunately, it does," Phil said grimly. “Will you be alright?” he asked with concern, almost like he hated to leave Steve here alone.

“I can get by on my own," Steve shrugged.

_The thing is, you don’t have to,_ an echo replied in his mind.

“Well, if you change your mind, give me a call," Phil said, handing him a business card and flashing him a reassuring smile as he hurried out the door to his awaiting duty.

_Cause I’m with you until the end of the line, pal._

Steve nodded to the echo of that silenced voice.

“Yeah, you were Buck," he said sadly, dropping his cold coffee into the trash and returning home to start his list for the future, though the voices of the past continued to linger.


	4. Tread Water

Steve made his way back to his apartment alone, ignoring the stares of passer’s by. That was the thing about being Captain America - everybody seemed to know who he was. Steve hated it. He wouldn’t have minded so much if it were people he knew, respected and trusted. No, it was these fans gawking at the walking history relic. The giggling crowds, the pointing and staring, the constant flash of his picture being taken, the ‘selfies,’ the Instagram – it was all too much. He wanted to be just Steve again. Just that kid from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight. But he couldn’t run from this, just like he couldn’t forget the memories.

What he could do was go home to his apartment, shower and change. He turned the shower on as hot as he could stand it and stood beneath the steaming spray of hot water, letting it wash the sweat and the bitterness from him. There was something so comforting about heat. The serum had ensured his survival and helped his recovery of course, but Steve could never be too warm now. He hated the cold, resenting the icy feeling that reminded him of a too deep sleep, of feeling like his lungs were drowning. It was like the worst pneumonia he’d had pre-serum combined with hypothermia and then _nothing._ A deep, cold sleep for nearly seven decades. It was no wonder he couldn’t sleep now, he thought grimly. He dried himself off, changing into a hoodie and sweats.

He'd left Phil’s notebook on the table, and he picked it up, glancing at the words he’d written. _History,_ Phil had said. It was all history. His entire life was now history, the past, yesterday’s news, it no longer mattered. Did anything? He let the little book fall onto the table, Phil’s business card fluttering out from between the pages.

Restless and annoyed, he considered getting up to make more coffee. He should probably have some real food too, he reminded himself. He poured some juice instead of coffee, drinking it quickly as he slotted two slices of bread into the toaster and cracked a couple of eggs into the frypan. The trouble was he got bored easily. Back in the good old days - it felt strange to call wartime _good_ , but it was the simpler times he missed perhaps. Regardless, back _then,_ Steve had gotten bored often too. He’d spent plenty of his younger years laid up for weeks at a time with scarlet fever, rheumatic fever, coughs and colds and flus every time it rained. He’d end up at home on the couch while Bucky fed him chicken soup and tried desperately to keep him warm in the draughty room. Steve’s mother was often working and couldn’t stay home to care for him, so Bucky had always stepped in, being the good friend he was.

But on schooldays when Bucky couldn’t be there, Steve had kept himself occupied with his sketch pad. He would have studied instead, but his eyesight pre-serum had been poor and squinting at printed pages often gave Steve blinding headaches. So, he’d turned to art. He had gotten quite good at it by the time army conscription had come around, and continued drawing during the Captain America tour, back before he’d proved himself and been recognised as a true leader by the army generals. He wondered what had happened to his old sketch-books and wished he knew where they had ended up. He’d like to see them again. So many memories and faces etched into the pages. Among them, Bucky’s portrait. Many of his sketch-books were filled with Bucky, his friend having volunteered to sit for pictures when Steve was bored, frequently striking ridiculously cheeky poses that would make Steve’s mother laugh when she happened upon them. Steve smiled at the memory, how he missed them - his mother’s gentleness and indulgent smile, and Bucky’s everything _._ His intense blue eyes, his cocky grin, his Brooklyn tough guy sass, his easy confidence and his friendship and fierce protection, always coming to Steve’s rescue when his honourable principles landed him in hot water, or more frequently, landed him in a back alley punch-up. He wondered how Bucky always seemed to find him. He supposed his friend had just taken to checking back alleys on his way home, knowing Steve’s penchant for trouble. He’d never missed Bucky more than he did now.

He finished his breakfast and eyed the business card Phil had left him. _Phillip J Coulson – Agent – S.H.I.E.L.D._ The name gave Steve pause. S.H.I.E.L.D was a high level government agency, and he wondered if he should bother Phil. Maybe he should wait for him to come home. No, that was ridiculous, he wasn’t a dog. He’d just call and if Phil was busy, he could leave a message. It was respectful, polite even, to thank a neighbour who had treated him to coffee, Steve thought, talking himself into it.

He dialled the number and it went straight to a recorded message. Steve had expected that, but couldn’t help the twinge of disappointment. The phone beeped and Steve swallowed nervously before leaving a short message.

“Phil. It’s Steve Rogers. I was just calling to say thanks for the coffee this morning. If I can repay the favour, give me a call sometime. You know, if you want. It’s Steve. Steve Rogers.”

He hung up before realising he hadn’t told Phil what his phone number was.

He buried his head in his hands. It had been so embarrassingly awkward. When had he forgotten how to talk to people? Captain America he might be, but right now he felt like pre-serum Steve. Skinny, awkward and hopelessly dorky. Bucky would be laughing at him right now.

He groaned, now Phil would think he was weird, perfect. Should he call back and give Phil his number? No, he decided. That had been horrible. Two messages were definitely worse than one. He’d just leave it.

He glanced at the notebook again, thinking about the few things Phil had told him to research to help get him up to speed in this century. He wondered if there was a library nearby where he could find some books on this Moon Landing – seriously, had they actually put people on the moon? How insane was that?! But he gave up the idea. Libraries were so public. Public meant people. People meant staring and photos and being in the spotlight. He’d just stay here. Maybe there was something he could watch on the television. Perhaps a documentary. They seemed sensible, if a little dull.

He managed to waste the day away in this fashion, ‘channel surfing’ he’d heard it called. Whatever it was, it was sure boring.

He flicked the television off and tossed the remote on the couch. He’d achieved nothing today. It left a bitter taste in his mouth. Just what was he supposed to do with himself?

He was spared the necessity of answering his own question when his phone rang, making him jump.

_Private Number,_ the screen read. Steve shrugged and answered it anyway. These new modern phones were sure different to what they’d had in the forties, he thought to himself.

“Hello, Steve Rogers speaking," he answered politely.

“Steve, it’s Phil.”

“Oh, hi!” Stave said, wondering what to say next. _How was your day?_ No, that sounded too weird. “How’s it going?” he said feebly instead. 

“It’s going fine," Phil replied. “I was just returning your call. Anything I can help with?”

Steve hesitated a fraction too long. “No, it’s fine. I just wanted to say thanks for the coffee," he said with a half-hearted attempt at confidence. He was usually so easygoing and self-assured, what was the matter with him?

“Steve,” Phil said quietly.

“Yeah?” Steve replied.

“You know, part of my job is reading people. If there’s something on your mind," Phil said cautiously.

Steve chewed his lip. “It’s nothing," he shrugged. “Just at a loose end, I suppose.”

“Alright. I can be at yours in twenty minutes. Any special requests?”

“Requests?” Steve said blankly.

“For pizza. What toppings do you like?” Phil asked.

“Oh anything’s fine,” Steve said. “Don’t trouble yourself.”

“It’s no trouble," Phil promised. "What do you like? Pepperoni? Sausage? Extra cheese? Anchovies? Pineapple?”

Steve grimaced, thankful that Phil couldn’t see his face. Salty fish and tropical fruit on a pizza?

“Just pepperoni is fine," Steve said with a shrug.

“Pepperoni it is. Anything else? Garlic bread? Soda?”

“Sure. Sounds great,” Steve said, trying not to show how overwhelming he found the abundance of choices.

He’d tried pizza of course. One of his Howling Commando’s who’d been stationed in Italy previously had gotten into the camp kitchen and made some for the rest of the guys on one of the few nights they’d been at base, and not out raiding Hydra facilities. It was good, a little much with all the meats and cheeses and flavours. Steve had been used to much simpler fare, but he didn’t mind it. He especially wasn’t about to turn down a hot meal and company.

Phil arrived within twenty minutes as he’d promised, bringing the smell of pizza into Steve’s apartment, along with garlic bread, soda and a movie he’d picked up – _Citizen Kane._

“Make yourself comfortable," Steve said, gesturing to the living room. Phil set down the food and slotted the old movie into Steve’s DVD player.

The evening passed quietly away. It was as Steve got up to make coffee that Phil gave him an analytical look and dispensed with the small talk completely.

“I meant what I said earlier Steve. What’s on your mind?” he said in a tone that brokered no argument.

Steve sighed, deciding it was pointless to try to hide it.

He perched himself on the arm of a chair and looked hard at Phil, trying to decide whether or not to trust him.

“It just feels pointless," he admitted finally.

“What does?” Phil asked.

“Everything,” Steve said so quietly that Phil almost didn’t hear him.

Phil held his breath, waiting for Steve to elaborate. He should have expected this. So many veterans struggled with feeling lost, purposeless, the suicide rate among veterans was twice as high as that among civilians. Steve wasn’t suicidal he was sure, but he was certainly lost, adrift – he had all the typical struggles, plus a good dose of culture shock.

“What do you need Steve?” Phil asked, knowing what he needed already - purpose. Phil and Nick Fury had already been working on the Avenger’s Initiative and Steve was part of that plan, but it was too soon.

Phil looked at Steve perched on the end of the lounge and felt his gut clench in sympathy. This was Captain America beneath all the layers. This was Steve vulnerable and alone, having lost everything and everyone and Phil wanted so badly to help him.

Steve thought hard about what he needed and found that he knew the answer.

“I don’t suppose you’d be able to find out what happened to my sketch books from before _everything_?” Steve asked tentatively and Phil’s expression reflected his surprise, it having been the last answer he’d expected. “It’s just, memories you know," Steve said, trying to appear nonchalant.

“I think that can be arranged," Phil said easily and Steve looked surprised.

“You remember Howard Stark? He was quite the collector," Phil said a little jealously, deciding not to mention his own Cap collection.

“Is he still around?” Steve asked, feeling his hopes rise. Howard had been his friend, how amazing would it be to see him again?

Phil dashed his hopes, however. “No, I’m sorry. Howard and his wife died in a car accident some years ago," he said regretfully.

“Oh," Steve said sadly.

“But I think his son Tony might know where to start looking,” Phil said with a bright smile.

“Tony," Steve said, trying the name. “Can’t wait to meet him," he said with the first hint of a real smile.

Phil almost looked apologetic, knowing what a wild card Tony Stark was. This would be interesting.

“I’ll get in touch with him," Phil offered.

“Thanks Phil. Really," Steve said gratefully as he showed him out a little later.

“Anytime, Captain," Phil said with a grin as he let himself into his own apartment. He couldn’t begin to think of how to get Tony to cooperate, but perhaps Miss Potts would be able to help.


	5. The Lady is a Tramp

A knock came at Steve’s door a few days later. Opening it, he found a courier waiting for him, a wrapped parcel in one hand and a clipboard in the other. 

“Steven Rogers?” he asked. 

“Yes,” Steve replied slowly, wondering what this fellow wanted. 

“Sign here,” the courier requested. Steve took the pen he offered and scrawled his signature along the bottom of the page. “All yours,” the courier announced, handing Steve the parcel and retreating back down the corridor. 

Steve watched him go with a puzzled expression, before shutting the door and depositing the parcel on the dining room table. 

He eyed the parcel suspiciously. Part of him both hoped for and dreaded the idea that it could be a mission brief from S.H.I.E.L.D, but then why wouldn’t they have sent an agent with it? Deciding he was being paranoid, Steve tore open the parcel and tipped the contents onto the table. 

Sketchbooks. Four of them. _His_ sketchbooks. He recognised the hand-drawn covers. A slow smile spread across his face. He turned the pages gingerly. Some of the edges of the pages had yellowed with time, but for the most part, they were in remarkably good condition. He spent a good ten or twenty minutes paging through each of them, awash in memories. 

He set the last sketchbook on the table, leaving the old drawing facing up. It was a group sketch of his Howling Commandos - Bucky flanked by Timothy “Dum Dum” Dugan and Jim Morita. Crouching in front of them with Steve's shield displayed proudly between them: Gabe Jones, James Falsworth and Jacques Dernier. The best men Steve had ever known. 

He sighed heavily, he was a strange mixture of happy and sad. He was grateful for the sketchbooks, grateful to Phil, grateful to Tony Stark he thought, reading the little card that had accompanied the sketchbooks. He hadn’t noticed it at first. 

_Cap,_

_You owe me one._

_Went to a load of trouble for these preschool drawings._

_Coulson was begging to stick them on his fridge._

_See you at the meet on Friday._

_Don’t be late, Old Timer._

_Stark_

Steve was just thankful Stark couldn’t see his face at this moment. His eyebrows had ascended almost to his hairline. He was a little confused and felt quite certain he should be offended. This Tony Stark was completely something else. And what was all this about a meet up on Friday? He decided he should probably call Phil and ask. 

* * *

Three o'clock on Friday saw Steve and Phil heading to the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum together to meet Tony Stark. 

Steve’s insides were a bundle of nerves on the way to the Smithsonian, though he was trying hard not to show it. He felt insecure and childish even admitting it to himself, but he wanted Tony Stark to like him. For the short amount of time he’d known Howard Stark, Steve had considered him a friend. True, he’d briefly been jealous of him as a potential rival for Peggy’s affections, but they’d gotten past that and been friends to the end. Howard had been a brilliant man, intelligent, loyal, self-made, and he hadn’t considered himself better than anyone else because of his wealth or status. On the contrary, Howard had risked his life, flying a small plane into enemy territory merely on Steve’s say-so (and at Peggy's insistence) and that had been _before_ anyone had thought of Captain America as more than a stage performer. Howard was a good friend, a great man. Steve wasn’t so sure about his son. 

The words arrogant and entitled sprang to Steve’s mind on seeing Tony Stark for the first time, putting on a show for the small tour groups visiting the museum. Steve was hard-put to contain an expression of disgust as he watched him blowing kisses to the crowd and grinning for the flashing cameras. Tony Stark was a showman, a famous name and little else from what he could see. He looked a fair bit like Howard, but he clearly wasn’t a thing like him. 

Steve gritted his teeth through Phil’s introductions. Tony Stark oozed arrogance and ego, and his superficial smile put Steve ill at ease. His gut feel was that whatever Tony did in the public eye was for his own ego and self gratification; it did not improve his opinion of him. That feeling steadily worsened as Tony led them through the museum and gave Steve a personal tour of the Captain America exhibit, filled with images and memorabilia of him and compounded by large screens playing interviews and reports of Captain America’s greatest victories. The famous Star Spangled Man With A Plan... No mention was made of Bucky. He was insignificant, unimportant in the annals of history. He was nothing to a man like Tony Stark. But he was everything to Steve. 

Steve was done. He’d seen enough, heard enough. This wasn’t _history._ It was a fan collection, an exaggerated tribute to some poster boy for truth, justice and the American way. It wasn’t Steve and it wasn’t his men, or what they’d stood for. This _exhibit_ was nothing more than a grotesque parody of his life and it made Steve sick to his stomach. 

He turned to go, starting for the door before he’d even had conscious thought to do so. Someone stopped him. A hand gripped his arm and Steve turned, looking down into Tony’s face. 

“Bedtime already, Old Man?” Tony said with a grin. “Plenty more to see!”

“I’ve seen enough,” Steve said coldly, jerking his arm out of Tony’s grasp. 

“What’s your problem?” Tony asked, looking the slightest bit offended. 

Steve took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, but it didn’t help much. He rounded on Tony, his eyes flashing. Phil looked like he wanted to say something to defuse the tension but Steve got there first. 

“You--” he started, but stopped himself. _If you can’t say something nice,_ his mother’s voice echoed in his head, but she was gone. Steve was still here. Stuck in a century he hated with people he felt a mounting dislike for. “You don’t know anything about respect,” Steve said flatly, stopping himself from saying something worse. 

Tony looked taken aback, but he quickly recovered. 

“Go on then, Cap. Tell me all about _back in your day,_ ” he said mockingly. Steve was amazed Tony’s sunglasses could fit his inflated head. 

“No,” Steve said quietly, but firmly. “Those stories are for me, not for display like all of this garbage.”

He ignored the look of hurt on Phil’s face and continued. “And you’re right. Back in _my day,_ a spoiled, arrogant, rich punk like you wouldn’t last ten minutes against a _real hero,"_ he declared, Bucky’s voice echoing in a back alley in his mind: _pick on someone your own size._ Bucky had been a real hero. 

He glanced at the cardboard cutout of Captain America on his way out and resisted the temptation to punch a hole through it. Buck deserved a tribute, all his Howling Commandos did. But in this century, the only thing they remembered was Captain America, the stage boy and marketing ploy. None of it was real. These portrayals of Captain America were as phony as Tony Stark’s smile he put on for the public. 

Steve returned to his apartment alone, more bitterly disappointed with this century than he had ever been before. He wished, not for the first time, that he’d stayed in his own century with Bucky and everyone he loved. 


	6. Purpose

"Steve, can we talk?" 

Phil's voice was pleading. Steve, however, ignored him for the most part, and returned to venting his frustration on his heavy-duty boxing bag. It had been a week since the disastrous museum outing with Tony Stark. Phil had left him alone and let him deal with his feelings about it on his own. It had been kind of him not to push the issue, but it seemed that particular kindness had reached it's inevitable end point. 

"Steve?" Phil repeated, increasing his volume over the sound of Steve pounding the boxing bag with his fists in carefully timed punch combinations. 

"What?" Steve said crossly, his eyes narrowing at the S.H.I.E.L.D agent. 

"Will you at least let me apologise?" Phil asked. 

"Fine," Steve said shortly. His Ma had always insisted on her son showing good manners to everyone he met. He _was_ being rude, he was prepared to admit that much. 

"I'm sorry that you hate the exhibit, and I should have expected there to be some sort of personality clash between you and Tony. I manage people and complex situations for a living. I should've known better. I am sorry," Phil said quietly. 

"I don't hate the exhibit," Steve muttered, breathing heavily. 

"You said it was garbage," Phil pointed out, raising an eyebrow. 

"It is," Steve said firmly. "It lacks substance, quality and grit. There's no grit, Phil. You make it look easy. Just Captain America swooping in to save the day, unstoppable with his miracle serum, like nobody could touch him, like he didn't have anything to lose, _the_ _invincible Captain America,"_ he mumbled resentfully. 

"What did you lose, Steve?" Phil asked, looking at him curiously. 

"Seventy years of my life," Steve muttered grimly. 

"No, let me rephrase that. _Who?_ Who did you lose? Phil asked. 

"I lost my girl," Steve said bitterly. "I lost all that time and we never had our dance." 

"No. No, that's not it. There's something more. _Who did you lose, Steve?"_ Phil said insistently. 

"Bucky," Steve finally admitted through gritted teeth. "I lost _Bucky._ " 

"Who's Bucky?" Phil asked. 

"See, that's just it, Phil," Steve exclaimed. "You don't know. You don't know Bucky. You can probably tell me everything about Captain America - probably got the diameter of my shield written down somewhere, but you don't know what or who mattered. You don't even know their names. Nobody knows or even remembers Bucky or Dum Dum, Gabe, Jim, James, Jacques… They were the real heroes. I was just lucky enough to lead them." 

"Sergeant James Barnes from the 107th?" Phil said thoughtfully. "Your Howling Commandos, right?" 

Steve nodded stiffly. 

"Tell me," Phil said softly. "Tell me about Bucky." 

"Why?" Steve said tiredly. 

"We can make it right, Steve. We can remake it into a memorial, a _tribute_ to the fallen - the tribute they deserve. Let their story be told, and do it your way, with _grit_ ," Phil said imploringly.

Steve paused, considering. 

"If I do this," he said slowly. "It has to be about them, their story, not mine." 

"You played a part in their story," Phil pointed out. 

" _A_ part, not the whole part," Steve countered as Phil nodded. 

The story poured onto paper, Phil's hand flying across the page as his pen tried to keep pace with the story as Steve told it. His many unsuccessful applications for army recruitment. The Stark exhibition in New York with Bucky in nineteen-forty-three. Meeting Dr Abraham Erskine. Recruitment into the Strategic Science Reserve. His arduous training. Jumping on a dummy grenade. Meeting Peggy Carter and Colonel Phillips and slowly earning the Colonel's trust and Peggy's affection. Undergoing the pain of the super soldier serum. Dr Erskine's murder and the first time he heard those dread words from an assassin: _Hail, Hydra._ The Captain America stage tour. Learning that Bucky's unit had been captured. Going behind enemy lines with Peggy and Howard's help to rescue the captured men and his best friend. His first confrontation with the Red Skull. The selection of his Howling Commandos. The creation of his costume and vibranium shield. Storming Hydra bases with his Commandos. Bucky falling from the train in nineteen-forty-five to his death. His grief and Peggy's comfort, inspiring him to fight on for Bucky. Locating the final Hydra base. The Red Skull's plan to unleash Armageddon on the world. The fight with the Red Skull on board his ship. The strange blue cube that made the Red Skull vanish. Realising the only way to stop the Red Skull's plan was to crash the plane into the Arctic. His last goodbye to Peggy. And a seventy year sleep. 

Phil was speechless. But in a way, Steve felt better being able to tell it all. Maybe in some small way, telling the story of the victories and defeats of the Howling Commandos would help someone, somewhere. Only time would tell…

* * *

The year was two-thousand-fourteen, but for James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes, it was another life, another year, and another man - the man he used to be, staring back at him from a museum exhibit. The memories were fragmented, fuzzy, and painful, but they were coming back. Memories, however, were subjective, the exhibit he was looking at was irrefutable proof. His target had been telling the truth. 

Later that same night, he opened his journal to page one, determined to start gaining some clarity amidst the tangle of old memories. His pencil scrawled three words at the top of the page. Three words that would begin his journey into discovering who he really was:

_I knew him._


End file.
